Lullaby
by Avaril
Summary: thranduil returns home from the war of the last alliance...
1. Prologue

Title: Lullaby (Prologue?)

Author: Bird

Series: Half-Breeds

Characters: Thranduil, OFCs, OMCs, Galion, and other various canon elves.

Time-Line: End of Second age -- Last Alliance

Summary: Thranduil returns from the War of the Last Alliance

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O for a voice like thunder, and a tongue

To drown the throat of war! - when the senses

Are shaken, and the soul is driven to madness

Who can stand? When the souls of the oppressed

Fight in the troubled air that rages, who can stand?

(William Blake)

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A cool breeze danced with the gossamer curtains dividing the balcony from the rest of the chamber, pale green material that sparkled with gold and silver embroidery along the edges. The playful air danced about the room, rustling papers on the desk, plainly carved from the stone cavern itself, like the bed and its posts in the center of the room. The curtains of the bed were darker in shade, but no less transparent than the ones hanging across the balcony, and the breeze fluttered them about like a kitten at play.

A foot protruded through the curtains, dangling somewhat off the bed, bare and pale. The air tickled the foot with the curtains. The foot wiggled and its owner moaned, drawing it back inside curtains. Waiting a moment, the breeze stilled as the foot parted the curtains just a bit, and it slipped inside as the foot did. The air hovered over the sleeping form, pondering its course, and then settled, spreading its cool in a thin layer over the elleth. A few tendrils tickled at her ears, whispering its wicked message. With invisible fingers, it lifted a few strands of her golden hair and laid them back down as it caressed over her bare skin.

The elleth batted at her hair as it tickled her nose, murmuring in her sleep, her features reflecting the emotions of her dream, her lips moving as she talked to those in her head. The breeze lingered, listening to her murmured words; she spoke of tenderness and love.

She lay with her head on her hands, elbows bent and face down on her stomach, completely nude.

Amrun, the wife of Oropher--the appointed ruler of the Sylvans of Greenwood, slept peacefully, dreaming of her husband, of his arms around her, his lips upon her. She dreamt of their son and the centuries of their lives. Of their lives since coming to the green wood.

Their bed surrounded her, stone-carven beech trees, the posts, as guards to protect her, their leaves creating a canopy across the ceiling above the bed. Simply it was an altar to their marriage in the middle of the room, with a short set of steps leading up to all sides. The green curtains swayed, the silver and gold embroidery of trees and vines, and other plants, sparkling in the light filtering in from the balcony.

In her sleep, Amrun began to hum a simple tune, the words noiselessly forming on her lips, and the breeze listened. It was a lullaby, something a young mother might rock her infant to as she cradled him to her breast and suckled him. Something that the wife of a soldier would sing.

"Do not weep, my babe, for this war,

Your adar has not gone far,

He shall return when the glow

Of the pyres have burned low."

Something that was filled with hope, and the breeze shuddered, knowing what it must do. Whirling up and fluttering the curtains frantically, it took a deep breath and cooled, settling about her and chilling her.

Shivering, Amrun jerked in her sleep, her blue eyes blinking as she slowly woke. Not fully awake, Amrun moaned, and the breeze whispered into her ear, caressing her with its wispy tongue. She batted sleepily at the tickling, yawning as she finally sat up and stretched. Blinking she shuddered and wrapped her arms around her shoulders, noticing how cool the room had become. She pulled the blanket up about her shoulders and stood up from the bed, pushing the curtains out of the way. Walking down the steps, her blanket trailing after her, Amrun approached the balcony.

She parted the curtains with one hand, the other clutching the blanket about her though it fell some from her shoulders. A breeze blew her hair gently, but it was chilling. Staring out into the hazy light of dawn, gray from the cloudy weather, Amrun's eyes grew wide. A cold stab of understanding pierced her heart, the message of the breeze becoming clear.

Unlike the lullaby, her soldier, her husband would not return. A single tear escaped from the corner of her eye, down along her nose to fall and disappear into her blanket.


	2. Part One

Title: Lullaby

Part one

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PartOne

Who can stand, the elf pondered, his blood stained sword held limply in his hand. The dead surrounded him, his people. Slain they had been by the dark lord's wrath, a wrath they had so desperately tried to escape.

He lifted his simple helm from his head, releasing his sweat and dirt matted golden braid. It fell with a heavy thud against his back, and he dropped the helm to the ground. His blue eyes darkened in their sorrow and anger.

Fools they had been, Thranduil thought to himself. If the dark one seeks you, you cannot escape him.

His feet were rooted to the muddied field of bodies, and all he could do was stare and watch the fiends of Hell feast upon the dead, those few who remained helpless to stop them though they continued to fight. In his heart and mind, he could hear the cries of the fallen, shrieking for their dignity.

In flurry of anger, he raised his sword and attacked the few near him, hacking them down from his brethren, but he knew it was pointless against so many. He cursed those behind him, the king and his followers, the lord and his lady--and their puppet king, and their followers. None came to his aid.

He searched among the bodies, avoiding the dark creatures, occasionally striking one down, the other survivors also searching and doing the same. He searched for golden hair, bloody and dirty. So many stared in death at him, and his mind whirled, dizzying him. Then he caught a bit of the silver color from his father's mark. The beech tree sparkled silver and red, the rivers of blood streaming over the armor.

Father, he screamed in his mind. He scrambled and stumbled over the bodies, sinking in the mud to his ankles, the mire slopping as he pulled his feet out and back in. He senses were completely numb to everything but his vision.

"Father!" He shrieked in anguish, eyes toward the heavens then his face crushed against the lifeless face of his father. In desperation and anger, he pulled away the bodies separating him from his father. Tugging the death-heavy body into his arms, Thranduil cradled the fallen king of the Sylvans. Tears mingled with muck and blood. The spirit of his father whispered to him in his ear, of love and wisdom, regret for so much between father and son. Thranduil wept, even as he heard the call for their retreat, the other realms in their condescension beckoning them back under their wing.

Looking over the dead, his father's head against his breast, Thranduil cursed the gods. The Sylvans that his father had worked so hard to gain trust from lay littering the ground.

Two approached him from the back, with quiet understanding for why he wept.

He looked up with his tears leaving clean trails on his face. Lathdir offered him a hand to rise, and Halathir caught Oropher's body as Thranduil let it go in his weakness.

"We will take him home to your mother, after all this is over," Lathdir whispered.

"He will have the burial of a king, as such as he was to us," Halathir finished.

Thranduil's legs buckled, but he was caught by Lathdir.

"You must be strong, my lord," the Sylvan chided. "You are now in his stead. You must confer with the kings that sit so proudly in their tents and upon their horses watching us now." Thranduil blinked back his tears, furrowing his brow in a grimace. Lathdir spoke the truth, a voice like thunder echoing in his head as the responsibilities of his new situation dawned upon him. He was king now; the thought terrified him for he had never expected to be such, his father reigning for as long as the realm existed.

Anger clouded his head. "I wish nothing more than to return home. It will be hard enough to bring Adar home to her. I do not wish to lengthen our stay." There was no glory now, when so many would not be coming home with them.

"And of the others, all those that we will not be able to bring home, nor identify? We have near a thousand dead, my lord." Halathir brought Thranduil back to reality. So many, and he now had to be strong for those remaining.

"Then if it must be, we will combine those little we have left, if only to protect ourselves. It's not brave when those left behind have no one returning." Thranduil allowed Halathir and Lathdir to help him bring his father's body off the field, a signal to the others to find their loved ones if they could and to bring the dead with them.


	3. Part Two

b>"Malgalad and more than half of his following perished in the great battle of the Dagorlad, being cut off from the main host and driven into the Dead Marshes." the unFinished Tales, pg. 271 /b>

Part Two

Exhaustion claimed him, but he could not sleep. The sounds of the battlefield, even when he tried to rest, haunted him, and he could not ease his wearied mind.

They had dragged the bodies from the fields, cleansed them, and prepared them for burial--for burial at home. But there would be no going home now. Not for a long time.

Thranduil rolled over on his cot and stared blindly at the sparse furnishings of his tent. A table to write at--his father's, a chair to sit in--his father's… He blinked and shifted his head so he watch out of the sliver-opening in the tent's flaps. Nothing could be seen, so he stood and stumbled to flaps. He pushed them open and gazed over the sprawling campsites, fires glittering as numerous as the stars above. Even the in the darkness, the banners of the realms flapped in the wind.

A brush of his hand and he tucked a tangled tendril of golden hair behind his ear, and crossed his arms as he looked out.

The night sky was surprisingly clear after weeks of rain and storm, but in the air he could hear the distant thunder. Soon clouds would roll across the sky and blot out the light of the stars.

Far below the horns of battle echoed, the metallic ring of swords, the whiz of the arrow. The battle cry of the warriors, the roar of the enemy, the screams of those cut down, the moans of the wounded…the silence of the dead.

Thranduil grew dizzy, his head spinning.

He stumbled back into the tent and fell into his father's chair. Legs sprawled, he slouched in the seat, his eyes closed as he replayed Oropher's death in his mind. He had seen it. Seen it all, as the orcs had surrounded the elf-king, cutting him down, while Thranduil had been too far away to do anything.

"My lord, King--," Halathir poked his head in through the flaps, and broke Thranduil's vision.

"Do not call me that," Thranduil hissed, not opening his eyes. "I am not king!"

Halathir tried again, "My lord, King Amroth of Lorien is here."

A tall elf pushed his way into the tent, shoving Halathir unceremoniously out of the way. "Thranduil of Greenwood." He bowed, his free silver hair glinting in the soft candlelight of the tent. His armor gleamed mithril, the leaf of Lorien emblazoned on his breast plate. A cloak of scarlet settled about him, his helm held casually under his arm.

Thranduil opened his eyes and looked up at the Sylvan. Cocky silver eyes watched him as Amroth towered over Thranduil.

"You may leave…" Amroth waved his hand at Halathir who glared at the Sylvan's back. Thranduil nodded reassuringly at Halathir, and the dark-haired ellon bowed respectfully to the two lords and left.

"Why are you here, Amroth?" Thranduil sighed and stood, matching Amroth in height, but did not attempt to greet Amroth formally. Instead, he picked up a half empty bottle of wine and offered him some in a goblet. He poured himself a cup and stared at his bedraggled reflection for a moment.

"You are in the presence of the new king of Lorien, my brother." Amroth's voice pounded Thranduil's brain.

"I am not your brother, Amroth. I am sorry for your loss." Thranduil drained his goblet and looked up. He scowled at Amroth.

Centuries had passed since Thranduil had last seen the elf, since Oropher had given his opinion on the influence of Galadriel upon the Sylvan realm of Lorien. Bitter words had been exchanged between the son of Malgalad, who spoke as if he were king, and Oropher. Thranduil had not said a word, but followed his father without a backward glance to friends made, and Greenwood had soon soothed his soul. But he had caught his mother's expression, and if it had not been for loyalty to husband she might have embraced Malgalad's queen, for only the wives seemed to express the true feelings of all.

Amroth smirked and sipped. "Aye, such a loss. I should have known my father would follow yours. The fool always regretted watching your father leave."

"Malgalad and Oropher had been such great friends," Thranduil murmured sadly.

"Amdir--that other name of old is to be forgotten."

Thranduil scowled and set down his goblet less than gently, droplets splattering the wood of his desk.

"How easily you forget your Sylvan heritage, taking names given to you by elves forsaken by all others!"

"How easily your father and yourself convinced the simple Sylvans of the north to place Oropher as king of their land…Sinda" Amroth sneered at Thranduil. "At least we kept ours, even if it was at a price." Then the king threw back his shoulders and drank from his goblet, studying the red liquid. "We should not be quarrelling, but as the sons of former kings, should be making our alliances."

Thranduil fumed at Amroth's accusation and quick change of subject.

"Are we not fighting upon the same side?"

"Aye," growled Thranduil. He took a step back as Amroth set down his goblet and reached out for Thranduil's hand.

"Then let us seal our alliances. Or are you not making any decisions for your land till you are formally instated as king at home?"

Thranduil frowned. "I may not be king, but I am protector of Greenwood till such a decision is made." He took Amroth's hand and shook it once, pulling Amroth with a jerk toward him. Mouth against ear, he hissed, "Unlike some, I did not smile at my father's fall…"

Amroth pulled away and straightened his cloak, dusting off where Thranduil had brushed against him. "Do not think I rejoiced at it." Amroth met Thranduil's eyes. "No one wants to see their father die when immortality is the nature. No one wants to watch their comrades dragged into the mire and marshes of the Dead." His bold demeanor fell for a second, and Thranduil caught a glimpse of what was hidden beneath the new king's façade.

"At least you had a body…" Amroth muttered bitterly. Then he raised his head, his expression hardening once again. "I await the news then, after all is over and we have returned to our home fires, for the news of your crowning. I would have our realms aligned, the last of the Sylvans…" A bow of formality and click as he turned on his boot heels, Amroth left.

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Halathir watched the king of the Lorien Sylvans walk away. Arms crossed, he leaned against the thick tent poles. He only moved when he sensed Thranduil beside him also watching Amroth.

"Well, my lord, I have a message from the King of Eregion."

"Aye," murmured Thranduil thoughtfully.

"He wishes us to join the battle again, but as archers. Now that we have recovered from our losses. He said that the Sylvans had lost too much on the battlefield, but our skills as archers are desperately needed." Halathir handed Thranduil a piece of parchment with Gil-Galad's writing sprawling across. "He gave Amroth the same message."

Thranduil half-smiled as he read the parchment. "My father would be disappointed to see me so quickly put our people under a Noldo's order…"

"He would praise you for protecting what little we have left," Halathir touched Thranduil's shoulder reassuringly. "Think of those at home. Are we fighting any less bravely? Have we not earned glory enough?"

"Glory?" Thranduil looked up sharply. "We are merely doing what needs to be done…"

"Aye." Halathir nodded. "And we are needed in the back, protecting the soldiers upon the battlefield with our arrows."

Thranduil nodded thoughtfully. Looking back out over all the tents and fires of his people, he spoke, "Have them ready their bows."

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"I did not think to see you out here, joining with the elves of the west! Hail the soon to be King of Greenwood!"

"Amroth, draw your bow and keep silent."

"Thranduil, let bygones be bygones! We are truly brothers, if at least just for the moment!"

Thranduil scowled and took down an orc. Nocked another arrow and dipped the point in poison, and shot another black creature. An Easterling, an orc… In the distance, upon the Dagorlad, the looming form of Sauron wielded his mace, flinging the bodies of elves, men, and orcs without discrimination. He attempted a shot at the dark form with no hope of his arrow even reaching the dark lord.

"Look away!" A cry rang through the rain and thunder, and all turned their heads as a blinding light exploded across the dark battlefield.

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(add on edit for part two…)

Stunned, elves, men, and orcs alike, fell back as the light pierced the night. For a few brief moments, silence echoed across the battlefield. Not a sword struck, not an arrow flew, but all warriors stared at the space where Gil-Galad, High King of the Noldor, had stood.

Sauron's triumphant roar blasted the air, his mace raised to the sky in his victory. The dark lord towered over all, and he swung the terrible weapon over his head. Down it crashed crushing the stunned at his feet.

With a cry, elves, men, and orcs awoke, and the sound of battle rose again, if not with more fever. From the rear, the horns blasted, calling elves and men to return, but all were loathed to heed its call, seeking revenge for the death of their king and general. A futile revenge against the powerful Maia.


	4. Part Three

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Part Three

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**"Thranduil, his son survived, but when the war ended and Sauron was slain (as it seemed) he led back home barely a third of the army that had marched to war." the Unfinished Tales, pg 271.**

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Soft droplets pelted the survivors, a cleansing, gentle rain, nothing like the storm that had raged before. Isildur held the ring high for all to see.

Thranduil shielded his eyes with a gloved hand.

Elrond stood at the human's side, an expression of worry marring his features, his hands twisting the ruby ring upon his finger. Together they entered the land of horrors, to destroy the cause of all their pain.

"I pray the human is strong," Lathdir said scornfully, turning away to face Thranduil.

Thranduil merely nodded and dropped his hand. Looking around, he blinked a couple times and waved for his comrades to follow him back to their campsite. When Lord Elrond and Isildur returned, all the protectors and kings of the realms would be called together. But until then, Thranduil sought to keep company with his own, what few there were.

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"Seven years, Thranduil, seven years in thousands." Amroth tossed his gauntlet to the side with his helm, not even bothering to wait for his announcement before entering the tent. "How do you fare this victorious eve?"

Thranduil did not look up from the notes he was making. "Sit, Amroth," he waved offhandedly at the group of chairs clustered in the center of the tent. With a swirl of his pen, he signed the parchment and turned in his chair. With the proud Lorien king was one other he knew well, and two he did not.

"Haldir." He stood and clasped hands with the warden. Often they had met on the field, but long before they had been friends, long before the rage of war. Tall and slender, the warden matched his king in features, silver hair and eyes, though with the smallest hint of blue at the centers, but a softer countenance, less haughty than Amroth.

"You greet my new March Warden, protector of Lorien." Amroth slapped his smiling warden on the back, then glanced back at the other two. "Ah, and his two brothers."

Haldir kept his focus on Thranduil, greeting the Sinda warmly. "Aye, my brothers, Thranduil." He turned and motioned for his brothers to draw nearer into the light of the candles. "Rumil and Orophin." The pair were almost identical to Haldir, except in height, Rumil was the tallest, but not by much, and Orophin in the middle. All were equally slender.

"Congratulations, my friend," Thranduil smiled, squeezing Haldir's hand firmly, Releasing him, the golden haired ellon nodded his greeting and acknowledgement to the other two. "Welcome to my humble quarters. Please sit." He indicted the chairs, and with a nod from Haldir, the two other wardens sat.

Still grinning, Amroth sunk into a chair facing away from the door, his legs spread and arms resting lazily on the sides of the chair. "The human fool could not do it." Amroth's grin morphed into a grim scowl.

Thranduil leaned over his table, grabbing a bottle of wine. "I have no vessels, my apologies. What has happened?" He passed the bottle to Amroth first, then to Haldir who had finally taken a seat, and so on.

"The human Isildur has taken the One Ring for himself," spoke the one called Rumil. He seemed unsettled, his fingers tapping nervously on the arm of his chair. The other brother, Orophin, reached over and placed a hand on Rumil's hand, stopping the repetitive noise.

Not noticing his warden's apparent unrest, or distress, Amroth continued, "Aye, we were fools to let the Ring fall into the hands of the weaker Second Born, the sickly in all--especially their minds."

Haldir shifted in his seat, looking quickly to Thranduil, then with a worried expression to Rumil. Orophin returned the glance to Haldir and took Rumil's hand, pulling him to his feet.

Not a word was said as Orophin led their brother outside. Amroth merely smirked and dismissed them offhandedly.

"Even Elrond and Galadriel refused to take the Ring, not trusting themselves." Thranduil looked at the empty chairs quizzically then sat in the one Orophin had occupied. Amroth scoffed and coughed. "I do not think any one of the elves could be stronger once the Ring touched their palm. Its power is so great--" Thranduil stopped and shivered.

"Does not matter now," Haldir whispered. "Isildur is on his way home, as we should be headed."

"Aye," Amroth agreed, and Thranduil smiled for at least they agreed on one thing. "Return with our meager offerings of condolence." Amroth grunted and slapped his knees, standing and drinking from the wine bottle one last time. A faraway look crossed his eyes, and the large Sylvan king blinked, his attention suddenly on Thranduil. "Let me know as soon as a decision is made, of who is to be crowned king of Greenwood. We return to Lorien upon the morrow, and I will anticipate the news in the coming year." He took two strides toward the door and stopped. "Haldir."

Haldir stood and embraced Thranduil again, whispering in his ear, "Well met again, my friend." But Thranduil was not satisfied and he lingered long enough in the embrace for Amroth to grunt his frustration and step out of the tent.

"All is not well, Haldir," his eyes shifted to the door and then back to Haldir. "Rumil?"

Haldir's smile faded, and he dropped his eyes to the floor. "Many have lost their innocence, Thranduil, as surely you are aware."

Yes, he was aware of it, for it was true of him and many of his companions as well. But the continuous decade of death and battle had steeled him against feeling it so keenly. However, witnessing Rumil's apparent distress reminded him of his own loss.

"He is much younger than most, Thranduil, for he has not yet reached his majority, albeit it is close at hand." Haldir's guilt was apparent in his expression, as if he blamed himself for dragging his brother into this mire.

Thranduil embraced his friend one last time. No words could be said to comfort, only a half smile offered as compensation. "You are welcome in Greenwood anytime, Haldir O Lorien." They shook hands, "And your brothers," and Haldir ducked out the tent flaps.

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Thranduil tightened the ropes holding his father's armor to the side of his stallion. The black animal snorted, a gift from the Half-elven Master of Rivendell with promises of alliance in the years to come. Of all that had come to give the young protectorate of Greenwood their sympathies and good wishes, the contemplative master was the only one Thranduil was not irritated to see.

"Thranduil do not hold grudges against any, for it will only shred away your humanity."

Thranduil paused in his work and sighed, not facing Elrond. "I dare not begrudge any, Master Elrond, for fear of alienating my realm." He turned and offered Elrond a smile. "You have been kind to me and my people, when others whispered about the rash and foolishness of my father. And your kinsman Gil-Galad as well, may his soul find peace."

The dark haired half-elf smiled. His armor gleamed in the light of the sun peaking from behind gray clouds. Despite the master's armor and scimitars, Thranduil could not help thinking that the elf belonged more among quills, ink, and parchment than the battlefield.

"I pray the powers-that-be will lend you grace in your realm, Master Elrond." Thranduil turned back to his business. Less than a third of his company returned home, and he watched as Halathir organized their bedraggled band. Lathdir rode up, carrying a small folded parchment with the seal of Galadriel upon it. But it was not for Thranduil. Lathdir handed the parchment to Elrond, ignoring Thranduil's expression.

"A letter from the Lady Celebrian O Lorien, my lord," Lathdir bowed respectfully.

Elrond smiled, taking the message and looking at it wistfully for moment. "All we can wish for is a bit of grace in our realms." He tapped the corner of the parchment into his palm once and hurriedly tucked it into his pocket.

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A bit of grace, Thranduil thought as they crossed the vast plains between Mordor, the stronghold of Sauron-defeated, and the green woodland of his home. He closed his eyes, and for the first time in a decade, he wished for the soft touch of pale skin. Silver-hair that would caress his shoulder, and bottomless blue eyes that would read his soul, he opened his eyes and caught Halathir staring at him with a knowing smile. The dark-haired Sinda turned and said something to Lathdir who arched a dark brow in Thranduil's direction.

Thranduil blushed and looked away. Though he fought against it mentally, he knew what was waiting for him on his return. A mother to be comforted and a realm to be held together, and it would his responsibility. He would king before the night settled on the day of his arrival.

A bit of grace, and he knew what would happen next, the encouragement to find a queen. Elrond was already doing such, courting the daughter of the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn. Though the two had no realm as their own, except through their influence in Lorien, having the powerful couple as an ally would be extremely beneficial.

Dark blue-eyes blinked at him again.

"We return to feminine graces, shoved to the back thoughts of our minds," Lathdir rode beside his friend. "Soft curves to greet us and welcome us."

The corner of Thranduil's mouth twitched, and he felt the animal beneath him shift as it walked. Soft curves, he had not thought about them all these many nights, and he felt shame for forgetting his lover left behind.

Soft fingers caressed his arm in the twilight. His hip and thigh.

"I had forgotten the graces of the female persuasion these many nights. The sound of battle does not help…steer one's mind toward the romantic."

Lathdir laughed. "Nay, but you are correct." His dark eyes twinkled, and he raised himself a bit, adjusting himself on the back of his horse. His expression grew serious, and his voice low. "You will be expected to take a wife, my lord."

Thranduil pursed his lips into a thin line. He had not expect the encouragement to happen quite so soon. But he had tasted the first mortality of immortality. A longer lifespan was not immortality, merely an increase in opportunities for death; and he no longer believed in immortality, just the delay of the inevitable.

He would need a wife and an heir, for immortality would only truly exist in his bloodline.

Thranduil focused on those around him. The light of the sun glistened on the frosty air, and winter would be upon them soon. He suspected that snow flurries would herald their entrance into the green wood turned brown and gray, just as it had seen them off a decade ago. But the winter had then turned into a perpetual rain with few breaks in its fall.

"I will walk for a while," Thranduil announced, smoothly dropping from his walking horse. Taking the reins in one hand, he strode forth beside the wagons, offering his company to the injured and those without horses to carry them. He smiled sadly, knowing that these few would bear the responsibility of comfort for those at home.


	5. Part Four

Part Four

The hazy gray of winter began to cast its dull light over the naked branches of the trees of Greenwood. Thick-coated beasts burrowed deep into their caverns of hibernation, a few still scurrying about to gather what little there was left for their consumption before the snows began to fall. The snow would start slowly at first for a of couple days, soft flurries dusting the branches and ground. But it would not be long before the blizzards hit, a whirl wind of white that would blanket the world in an icy cloak.

A pair of midnight blue eyes peered out from a tree along the southern border of Greenwood. Malterin wrapped about her shoulders a dark blue cloak embroidered with the symbol of the House of the Beech Tree. Beside the huddled form rested the remnants of a loaf of way-bread and a handful of the first winterberries to appear. She held a small water-skin to her lips, refreshing her spirits and quenching her thirst with a slow swallow.

The branch swayed slightly as another joined Malterin in her watch.

"Malterin, you have kept long hours watching for their return."

Malterin did not acknowledge her sister's presence except with a blink of her eyes. Tossing her loose white hair back over her shoulders, Motherin settled down beside Malterin. She took the liberty to pull her sister's cloak around her shoulders as well, so that they shared the warmth from the cooling air, their bare feet swinging below the branch.

The two Sylvan ellith did not speak any further, but watched the sky darkening in the horizon, reveling in the warm of each other beneath the cloak.

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"My lady, Amrun," Galion stood behind the Queen of Greenwood. She had grown distant in a few years, her gazes often focused on the south. It was no secret why, since the day Galion had found her frozen to the balcony, crying. She had whispered to him, repeatedly--he is gone. He is gone. Then she had collapsed into his arms, weeping.

Her words had shaken him to the core. Oropher was gone, whisked away by the cold blade of war.

Though she had been the first to feel the breeze of death, soon the entire palace had been overcome. Galion had taken her back to her bed, comforting her with the few words he knew, his own mind cloudy with the memories of the dead king. He had held the king long before he was king, back before he had taken his first steps. Had held the babe as he came squalling into the world.

Now he stared at her back; she was nothing more than a cold, pale statue in the finery of her position. None of it had ever meant anything to her, and now it meant less. He remembered the days when she was merely, Amrun, wife of Oropher the Sinda. Child of Lindon. Evacuee. Time had not changed her, truly. She merely took the role out of love for her husband.

Now that role was nothing, nothing without him.

"When my son returns, I will give him the choice to take his father's responsibilities."

Galion shivered; her voice was ice, the warmth of her countenance gone.

"Or what, my lady? If he does not take it, who will take his place?"

Pale blue, the color of ice, her gown only made her seem harsher and colder. Silver embroidery of the stars around her waist and bodice, spread out into a sea of widely spaced constellations over her floor sweeping skirt. A circlet of silver leaves accented her golden hair. Terribly beautiful she seemed, so different from the warm and simple elleth of her youth, who had been all smiles and laughter.

"Then I suppose Halathir or Lathdir will, but I think they would only if Thranduil asked them specifically…" her words petered off and she turned to Galion.

Her eyes were sore from weeping, the rims red, her cheeks stained with salty rivers. "I thought, Galion, that we were free from the curse of the exiled Noldor…" She paused. "But I feel myself barely holding on, only to see my son again. Yet, I have no desire to fade." She dropped her gaze to the floor. "I am so confused," she whispered.

Galion stepped closer to her, his arms wide and she fell into his embrace yet again.

"I am so weak," Amrun murmured against the velvet of his robe, her tears starting anew.

"Hush, sweet one," he whispered into her hair, untangling the circlet from her tresses and tossing it to the bed in the center of the room. "It is natural to mourn the death of one's mate. And you have been strong for your people--"

"--But cold toward them, when I should be comforting." She rubbed at her nose with the back of her hand and stood straight, smiling weakly at the elf before her.

"Here," he wiped away her tears with the cuff of his robe. Pushing her chin up with one finger, he bent his head to look in her eyes. "No one thinks of you as cold, nor unfeeling. We all understand your loss." Kissing her forehead, he smiled fondly at the memories of watching Oropher and Amrun's courtship. Such innocent and young love.

---------

Falling from the sky in soft flurries, snow dusted the slow moving band of elves. Tired ellon trudged along on their feet or horses, listening to the monotonous bump and creak of the cart wheels. Occasionally fingers rubbed at eyes blinking away the snow on eyelashes. A month, a month and a half, maybe two, had passed since they had left the battlefield of Mordor.

Their spirits were low, heavy with the weariness of travel.

Lathdir stretched his sore arms over his head and leaned forward, searching the horizon for that familiar dark shadow that would herald the presence of his home. He shook his head, shaking the white crystals from it in a shower that was quickly replaced by more.

"All I want is a warm cavern and mulled wine," grumbled Halathir, his hands tucked into the folds of his cloak.

Lathdir grinned. "Do not tell me that as an elf, you are bothered by this cold," he snickered, keeping his eyes searching ahead. "Perhaps you mingled with the Second Born too much…"

Halathir frowned. "No, just tired of this. I'm just ready to be home." He looked over to Thranduil. The blond elf slouched on his horse, head jerking up occasionally as he tried to stay awake. "As others are too…"

--------

Galion walked along the corridor; he left the sleeping queen huddled beneath her coverings, a sleeping spell aiding her in her reverie. A few turns and he approached the door to Thranduil's chambers. Everyday he came here, aired out the room, made sure the bed was ready for his return. Whenever that would be. If it would ever be. But they hoped.

Smoothing his fingers over the velvet of the quilt, Galion sat down on the edge. Over come with grief, he let his tears fall for the first time. Oropher was gone, and now he would serve his son, as he had served Oropher, and those before him to his grandfather Legolas of Gondolin, founder of the House of the Beech Tree. He had loved him as a father loved a son. Had raised him as a father would.

Swallowing, Galion stood and walked to the mirror on the far wall, looking at his reflection. He wiped away the tears. If any ever returned, mourning would be brief. And life would go on as it had for so many centuries, millennia. Galion had witnessed the devastation of war first hand, had seen the balrogs and dragons leveling their world, has seen Doriath sacked and Oropher's grandfather slain. He had wielded his own weapons against an enemy, killed his share.

But experience and life didn't make the loss any easier.

--------

Skeletal trees swayed in the wind, silver hair whipped. Malterin brushed it away from her face and turned from her daily watch. She slid from her branch, her feet soundlessly hitting the ground, bare toes squishing the snow between them. Careful and sure, she broke the barrier of trees surrounding the edge of the forest. Outside of the comfort of the trees, the wind was harsher, colder…louder in its howl.

She stood out in the world of white, a dark blue blot against the background. The spindly trees of the outer world did little to cover her lone figure. The gray sky darkened as night fell.

A heavy sigh and she turned, walking back into the forest. Drifting, weaving, among the trees, she made her way. Huddled Sylvans watched her from their flets, sympathetic hearts. All had kept vigil, waiting for a return that never seemed to come.

Malterin stopped at the base of an ancient, thick oak, and leaned against the warm bark. She breathed deeply a couple of times, then climbed into the flet above. Curled into a ball, her sister slept in the center of the flet. Malterin crawled across the boards, snuggling against Motherin, facing her. Spreading out her cloak over both of them, she pulled it over their heads and kissed her sister on the cheek.

----------

A cracked voice broke the silence, trying to be heard over the wind.

"Home!" It echoed, barely registering to his companions. A few heads raised. An ellon at the front of the march had stopped, his hand shielding his eyes as he stared into the distance. The dark shadows of trees loomed on the horizons, gray blurs in the falling snow. His words dawned upon the others, and the elves halted, stunned eyes raised.

"My lord! Home!" Another suddenly discovered his long forgotten energy and ran toward Thranduil.

Jerking his head, Thranduil stared blankly at the ellon before it registered. Home.

Lathdir was already riding along the edge of the group to the front of the line. Dark hair and cloak flapped in the wind. They were closer than any had thought, and he blamed their states of exhaustion that none had noticed the shadows sooner. Night was falling fast, and he could not be sure what the others would want to do, to rest or plow on till under the protective covering of familiar trees.

He reined his horse around and rode back to Thranduil.

Thranduil's expression gave him his answer--they would continue on till the trees welcomed them home.

His first smile since they had left. It spread across Thranduil's face. Their pace quickened as soon as they started walking again. Spirits lifted. Thranduil blinked and rubbed his eyes, thinking he imagined a figure watching them, waiting for them. But he attributed as his mind playing tricks on him, his own wishful thinking. His own dreams of one so warm beside him, one that had watched him with laughter in her eyes from the branches of the trees, sunlight playing in her silver hair and giving it a red glow.

He let the pleasant thoughts draw him nearer to home.


	6. Part Five

PART FIVE

**"These are my kindred, my kind. And I feel strangely at home." Anon.**

To the call of the winter birds, huddled masses of feathers fluffed to capture warmed air, the elves returning from war stepped between the trees of Greenwood. The early morning light shone dully through the clouds. Everything around them echoed with peace, with the familiarity of home. All paused and parted, allowing Thranduil to dismount and enter first through the beeches, oaks, maples, and pines of old, though naked of the greenery for which the forest was named. Halathir took the reins from him, releasing all the horses to stretch their tired legs and find rest.

Thranduil felt the eyes of his companions following him.

But it was not to them he looked, but to those that greeted them, those that had kept watch along the borders, waiting for them to return. Mostly ellith, with a few ellyn, dropped from the trees. Silently, they searched the bedraggled ranks, an elleth here, an ellon there, running to one of those standing in shock at finally being home. Whispers of grateful joy were soon followed by silence for those not returned, followed by quiet weeping for those fallen as mementos were returned.

Not all had someone to greet them at the border, their loved ones residing within the comforts of the caverns, but the joy of the other's was catching.

Thranduil smiled and turned to see Halathir behind him nodding toward Lathdir.

Lathdir swung an elleth in his arms, boisterous in comparison to the others around them. But he set her down and frowned back at Thranduil. His white haired lover motioned to another, and an elleth came out from behind a tree.

"Wood Spirit." Malterin was the vision that had haunted Thranduil's dreams and waking hours on the journey home. Neither spoke, but she averted her eyes, though nothing between them was shy. No rush to each other's arms, no shouts of joy, no kisses covering each other's faces and lips. Just quiet smiles, tenderness from afar.

Raising his hand, he silenced the others, gathering their attentions. "We will rest here for the day and night. Within the comforts of the flets and our kin." His eyes never left her, his gaze sweeping over her free form, hair unbound, bare feet, gown of the simplest white--loose and breezy even in the cold of winter.

What a contrast those greeting them presented to the battle weary clad in armor beaten, in rags torn in battle!

Far from his mind flew the thoughts of his new responsibilities; far away went all the pain of the moment. He could only see her.

Around them were the murmurings of tired soldiers and loved ones, friends. A few at a time, they disappeared into the flets, to the warmth of love and companionship.

Lost in her eyes, Thranduil did not notice that Malterin had come closer till her hand took his.

Giggles and laughter from Motherin, and Lathdir swept his lover away to the high bowers, warming his soul within the depths of her heat. Halathir disappeared with other soldiers to find comfort in the flame of fire. Alone Malterin and Thranduil stood.

"You are exhausted."

He merely nodded, unable to voice to her all he wished to say.

"Undoubtedly, you are hungry."

Again, a nod.

She squeezed his hand and pulled him with her, and up they climbed to the flet. Guiding him, she waited for him to drop his weapons to the floor before she eased him back against the trunk. Her hand stroked his cheek and combed through the tangles of his golden hair. Her blue eyes traced over the familiar lines of his face.

Catching her by surprise, he took her hand and pulled her into his lap, enveloping her in his arms. He chastely kissed her. They snuggled, listening to the soft whispers of the snow and wind, occasionally hearing the murmurs of the others in the trees nearest them.

His stomach growled. He winced and smiled helplessly, and she laughed.

Untangling herself from his arms, Malterin stood and went to the side of the flet. The flet was bare except for a crumpled blue cloak, a few bowls and a small box of other items, and the two elves, reminding Thranduil of the aesthetic simplicity of these Sylvans with whom he had found his home.

She was gone, over the side, and back before he could register that she had left. In her hand was a waterskin, in the other a bowl of dried winterberries and shelled walnuts with a loaf of bread on top. On her knees, she crawled to him, offering him the water first to quench his thirst.

He drank greedily, finding it sweeter and more pure than any wine offered him by a king or lord.

She broke the bread and offered him half--a gift finer than all the horses of a kingdom. Malterin fed him a berry, then a walnut.

She did not mention the absence of his father. She did not need to, as none needed to mention the absences of others.

The wind carried a lament to them, elves singing out their sorrows and joys simultaneously.

They were still several days' journey from the mountains and caverns, and Thranduil shoved his return from his thoughts, concentrating purely upon the vision tending him now. All the responsibilities awaiting him were forgotten.

He kissed her fingertips as she pressed another nut between his lips.

All thoughts vanished in a flurry of silver hair. He chewed thoughtfully, watching her move fluidly to bring him the cloak. She snuggled beside him, covering them both with the dark blue material. He paused mid-chew, his mouth shut.

Spread over them both, the roots and branches of his father's house. Limbs reached out, silver and gold-thread leaves fanning in an imaginary breeze. The leaves fell down worn cloth, falling from the tree to the ground to feed the roots below.

Lips caught the tears that fell down his cheeks.

---------

"Oh I have missed this," Lathdir panted, arching his back up from the flet floor. "Missed you." He ran his hands down his lover's bare shoulders. Catching her hair in his hand, he slid his fingers up the back of her neck and brought her head down to his, kissing her.

Motherin tightened her thighs around him and shivered, though not from the cold.

"As I have missed you," she murmured into his mouth. Neither wasted the morning with idle patter.

Lathdir rolled them both over, settling between her thighs, pulling her legs up higher around his waist. They writhed among discarded clothes, his armor and weapons tossed to the side in their haste, her dress beneath them along with his tunic.

With a shudder, he let out a hoarse cry, his arms turning to jelly and no longer able to support him over her. He collapsed onto Motherin. For a moment, they lingered and caught their breath, reveling in the warmth of each other. Rolling off her, he stared at the branches crisscrossing overhead.

"You are worth all the death," Lathdir said, raising himself on his elbow, studying her intently. He nuzzled her shoulder, the scent of her hair invading his nostrils. "I would kill a thousand more, if I knew you would await my return."

Motherin frowned and rolled over to face him. With the back of her nail, she combed over his eye brow and down the side of his face. "But are all the deaths of our friends worth it?"

"When it is for the protection for those we love, it is always worth it…" He kissed her nose and brought her tight against his body. Reaching behind them with his free hand, he felt for the hem of his dusty cloak and pulled it over them. Tucking her head beneath his chin, he wrapped his arms around her. His heart beat into her ear.

"Motherin, would you come to the caverns with me, now that I am returned?"

"No," she whispered.

---------

Halathir gathered with a dozen others, a fire blazing before them. It crackled and popped as glowing embers disappeared into the gray daylight. He stared blankly into the fire, but his mind raced with all that needed to be done. They were still at least two days from the palace, if they traveled quickly--if by horse back, a day. Looking up at the trees, he knew that some of the Sylvan soldiers would choose to remain here with their loved ones in the flets.

"You." Halathir waved over a Sylvan ellon, a young elf who had yet to reach his majority. Eyes bright in comparison to Halathir's tired ones, the elf came to his side, all smiles and eagerness. He wore the pale winter grays and whites of the woodland elves.

"Take my horse and ride to the Caverns of Oropher. Alert Master Galion that we have arrived into the forest and will be at the palace in two days' time." Halathir held his hands palms-out toward the fire. The ellon stood to the side behind him, watching the Sinda lord refresh and warm himself. "We will take the morrow to wash and cleanse ourselves before our arrival."

A short nod of understanding, and the ellon waited for Halathir to stand and whistle for his horse. From between the trees, a chestnut mare trotted to them, and Halathir clucked to it, rubbing his hands over its muzzle and neck. Halathir loosened the saddle of Noldorin-make and let it drop to the ground with all he had carried home. Smoothing the hairs of the animal's back, he stroked back to its front and introduced the horse to its temporary master.

"Tell Master Galion that this horse was a gift from Lord Elrond to the kingdom of Greenwood."

The ellon settled on the horse's bareback and looked down to Halathir. "Anything else, my lord?"

"Nay, nothing that needs saying…" Halathir patted the chestnut's rump and it flicked its tail. "Speak with Master Galion only," his stern command, then he smacked the horse's rear and it took off through the forest, bearing its messenger.

---------

The gates to the caverns swung open. Barely taller than the tallest of the elves, they were constructed of wood and carved with the scene of a herd harts peacefully living among the trees. The rider only waited a moment before cantering into the small courtyard at the entrance of the caves. A few elves greeted him, pausing in wonder at the sudden arrival of the young Sylvan, upon horseback, and in such haste. No Sylvan kept such an animal, or any animal at all.

He jumped from the mare's back and ran to the nearest elf, a maiden collecting at the fountain in the center.

"Master Galion, have you seen him? I have news of great import." He inhaled and exhaled deeply after his rush of words. The elleth only stared at him before it registered what he wanted. Shaking her head, she pointed toward the entrance to the caves, tall and elegant wooden doors that dwarfed even the elves, arched at the top with a beech tree detailed in the center of both.

These were Oropher's Caverns. The ellon had never been inside the palace before, and he stepped back a moment. Finding his feet, he strode to the doors and pushed them open. Silently they moved inward. A stern face greeted him, lips pressed tight together and sad eyes narrowed.

Only the horse's snort and whinny brought him back to the task at hand, and the ellon smiled as Master Galion's attention was diverted to the animal stamping in the courtyard.

"Halathir sent me, Master Galion." A wave of his hand toward the creature behind him. "A gift from Master Elrond."

Halathir, gifts from a foreign lord. Galion's mind raced with the full meaning of it all. Standing in the doorway to the caves, Galion stumbled and inhaled. He caught himself against the edge of one door and straightened himself. Closing his eyes, he whispered low, "Among those returned, pray tell that the son of Oropher was one of them."

"Aye, Master Galion."

Galion sighed his relief and opened his eyes, a bittersweet smile tugging the corners of his mouth.

"Come inside and I will have someone come care for the gift." With a small smile, Galion watched the elves of the courtyard stare at the horse, as it had become unruly and inquisitive, poking its nose into any available basket or jug of water. The elleth at the fountain frowned as the mare upset her jug over the ground.


	7. Part Six

PART SIX --

The snow had stopped falling during their night of rest, and a white blanket glistened in the sunlight trying to peek out from behind the clouds.

Clothes were strewn and folded neatly along the banks of a creek flowing in a southerly direction. Elves sat on the edge watching their kin and friends bathing noisily in the water. Dust and dirt washed away, the frigid water soothing healed wounds and bruises. They had traveled half the day to bathe, and it would be another day and half before they saw the Gates

Lathdir laughed with his lover in the water, and it seemed that the elves that had left a decade before were returning in spirit.

Malterin's hands massaged down Thranduil's soapy back. Her naked breasts and nipples tickled against his skin. The day before, he had been too exhausted, too distant to touch her beyond a few gentle kisses. But now, in the daylight, in the river filled with laughing Sylvans and Sindar, he tingled under her caresses.

His wood spirit's fingers danced over his skin.

Thranduil closed his eyes, letting her touch remind him of summer days before the bitter winter night. Of days when things were simpler.

--------

"Have his things transferred to my chambers, and mine to his." Amrun sucked in her breath and held it a moment. It was her final admittance to Oropher not returning. She would remove herself from the chambers that he had had carved for them. It was fitting and proper for the soon-to-be king to reside there, her gift to Thranduil.

Turning around, she saw Galion, his silver brows knit into a stern expression though his turquoise eyes glittered with a hope she had not seen in sometime.

"What is it, Master Galion." She bent and smoothed a wrinkle on the bed.

"They are soon to arrive, my lady."

"Oropher begged no formalities of you." Amrun straightened and breathed deeply. "How long," she murmured looking toward the window where she noticed the snow had stopped falling.

"Less than a day, by evening tomorrow, I suspect."

Amrun strode to the balcony. Her pale fingers curled around the stone rail. It always struck her, the cold feeling of the stone compared to the home they had in Lindon. The wood had breathed and felt so alive beneath her fingers in that home, but the stone did not. It was solid and unmoving, unfeeling almost.

"He will be much changed," she whispered to no one.

--------

"My lord, we should be leaving soon if we are to make it by sundown tomorrow."

Thranduil opened his eyes and looked at Halathir on the shore. The dark-haired Sinda was already dressed, with Thranduil's horse at his side. The stallion snorted, its black eyes focused on its master. Malterin's arms encircled his waist and tightened, her palms smoothed over his abdomen.. But he could not stay. Too much beckoned him, and he regretted not making love to her the day before. There was no time now.

His hands upon hers, he loosened her from him and lifted her slender fingers to his lips.

Lathdir stopped his bathing activities and frowned. As much as it displeased him, Halathir was correct. Thranduil had to be crowned, and the sooner the better.

Motherin kissed his shoulder, then his throat. Lathdir closed his eyes, her velvet lips soft against his skin.

"I offer again, come to the caverns--if only for me," he muttered for her ears only. Her kisses stopped and she pulled away; eyes averted she turned toward the bank and stepped onto the snow. Motherin said nothing. She picked up her shift and dressed.

Around them elves left the creek and dressed. The Sylvans that chose to remain embraced their comrades-in-arms.

Watering dripping from his hair and body, Lathdir left the creek. She refused to look at him. He towered next to her in all his nude glory; his whole form blazed with his frustration. He opened his mouth to speak.

"Do not make me say the reasons again," she whispered before he uttered a word. Green eyes steady with her own anger, Motherin made eye contact with him but soon found herself staring at his lips. She dropped her gaze again. "Get dressed and go back to your cage." They avoided repeating the argument.

"Such a homecoming," he stated, his body tense--holding back, and turned to pull on his clothing.

She stared at his back, her expression falling when he could not see her. "This is your home."

He winced and paused in pulling his tunic over his head. "I made an oath." The tunic molded to his wet body. "And I mean to stand by it. Thranduil will be king soon and need I>_faithful /I> _companions to surround him." He stepped into his boots.

She winced. "I have been ever faithful," her voice low and defensive. She stooped to pick up his sword and belt, handing it to him as he turned to reach for them.

Jerking them from her hand and cinching the belt loose about his waist, he bit his lip, chewed it.

"It is not enough," he finally replied. Thranduil was standing ready with his horse, Malterin stood away from him. She would not go either. Lathdir crinkled his nose and began to walk away. It was time to leave. Again.

"I have missed you." There was no pleading for him to stay in her voice, just the statement of a fact.

He kept walking.

"As I have missed you," he muttered under his breath.

-------

"That chair will do." Galion pointed a slender finger at a straight backed chair, carved of wood. "It was his father's." It was not a throne; no intricate decoration, just simple scrolling for the back, and green brocade for the cushion. A chair fit for a dining hall, to be lost in a sea of a hundred others exactly like it. And it had been--in a court long forgotten, and thousands of leagues away in a land long gone. Now it sat alone in a dusty corner of Oropher's chambers.

"Take it to the great hall."

An ellon picked the chair up and carried it out of the chamber.

There was no precedence for crowning an heir in Mirkwood. Oropher's had been outside, among the flowers and greenery of Spring Equinox. And it had not been anything more than the simple acceptance of the Sylvans to his leadership. Just a general nod and consensus among those that chose to. A crown of flowers and leaves had been placed on his head; no circlet of mithril. That had come later.

Woven branches of mithril with leaves of gold sat on a side table in the bedroom. Oropher had placed it there his last night with his wife.

Galion picked up the circlet and blew the decade of dust from it. She had ordered Oropher's things untouched, to remain as he had left them. The metal was cold and heavy in his hand.

"I could not carry such a weight," he mused, his fingers tracing over the intertwined mithril branches. Another elf stood at his side, in his hands a box trimmed on the inside with red velvet. Galion placed the crown into the box and closed the lid.

----

"Look." Thranduil signaled to his companions to stop. He reined his horse to a halt and leapt down. Lathdir and Halathir exchanged understanding glances as Thranduil walked away. An ice-laden bush sparkled in the budding sunlight.

Thranduil brushed his fingers over the frozen color of the crimson holly berries and the sharp points of the leaves. Fine fingers of frost and ice created captivating patterns across the bush.

"What stunning beauty in such a desolate place," he murmured, drawing back his hand. It was a shock to see such vivid color after so much gray and white. So much shadow, most of it in his mind. Closing his eyes, Thranduil felt a drop slide down his cheek. The red had appeared as drops of blood on the branches, and scenes of the battle returned to him.

The slide of the mud as he ran through the bodies.

"Such a simple beauty, my lord," Lathdir said in a hushed tone, sliding down from the horse he and Halathir shared.

Halathir stood back, watching as Lathdir approached Thranduil and touched the bush. In all the years he had known the Sylvan, his respect for him had grown. It had taken him sometime to fully trust Lathdir, but once he had, there was no other he would have stand beside him--other than Thranduil.

The Sinda had been amazed at the deep connection the elf had with his surroundings, the forest world he had been born into. Watching him now, Halathir felt it, almost thought he could sense the jolt as the Sylvan's fingers touched the bush.

Thranduil looked up at Lathdir, opening his eyes and flicking away the single tear. He pursed his lips, then relaxed them with a sad expression. Lathdir's profile suddenly struck him, a proud chin and angular jaw that the Sylvan had of late carried with a grim expression. But then there was so much to be grim about.

Lathdir softened the clench of his teeth and cocked his head a bit. Catching Thranduil's gaze, he smiled. The laughter of innocence and youth was gone from Thranduil's eyes, and Lathdir wondered if his own eyes were so changed. Empty orbs where smiles never reached anymore.

Thranduil nodded. "It is simple, but so stunning at the same time."

"True," the Sylvan sighed, looking up at the new falling snow. Small flakes drifted silently around them, great spaces between them. The sun hid again behind clouds, but things seemed gentler than the storm that had come before.

His gloved hand caressed the hilt of his sword on his hip, and Lathdir felt a pang of … something. He could not describe it, but it saddened him. A sense of guilt almost, a contrast of what he had seen and done compared to the gentle spirit around him now--an innocent spirit that seemed unaware of all his deeds. Feminine laughter echoed in his ears, and spirit danced about him, caressing him and beckoning him to stay

But it had been necessary, Lathdir reminded himself.

He jerked as fingers hesitantly touched his shoulder. Turning his head, Lathdir smiled weakly at Thranduil.

"The berries and leaves of the holly have always brought me such great joy. To see the contrast, the reminder of life when everything appears dead and sleeps."

Thranduil nodded. "Will you remain and stand beside me? I know the caverns seem--"

Lathdir held up his hand, hardening his expression again. "I swore to your father and I will do again for you. You have my loyalty." He caught Halathir's approving smile behind Thranduil.

The corner of Thranduil's mouth twitched. "I am not king yet, my friend." He removed his hand from Lathdir's shoulder and turned on his heel. Halathir held the reins of his horse and handed them to him.


	8. Part Seven

(AN: I must apologize to those who are following this story, that it has taken me two years to update. Life takes unexpected turns.)

They watched from the shadows of the skeletal trees. Two forms, both with different perspectives on the horses passing by, and what the Noldorin gifts meant for the forest realm. Until now, Noldorin influences had been steadfastly rejected and banned. The dead king had refused, his whole reasoning for being in this forest, to escape those same cursed elves.

But Noldorin blood coursed through the veins of their allies now, and they were bound to be affected.

Such a small king and his people, could they stand against that which was heralded by the Prince's return upon such steeds?

-----

"We will need a stable man, Master Galion, but who! Who here among us knows what a stable entails?" The ellon threw his hands up in exasperation. The horse that had borne the messenger either roamed free in the courtyard or around the entrance of the gates, pestering any who dared come near it. "It is too cold to let it roam free, and we have no place or food or anything. And if what we are to believe is true, they are bringing a whole army of the creatures home with them! Its winter, where shall we find the means to house these creatures?"

"True, we are not accustomed to keeping such creatures, but our returning lords could surely help us, having spent a decade among those who do." Galion allowed a small smile to curve his lips. "And perhaps there are a few among us here who remember the Noldorin stables of Beleriand."

Galion's assistant stopped in his path and dropped his hands to his side, and the elder of the two reached out and touched the younger's shoulder.

"We will manage, Saelbeth." Galion removed his hand from his cousin's shoulder and smiled. The younger was his relation, but he had only met him upon returning to the Green Woodland. But that they were related was no mystery. The same silver hair and deep turquoise eyes, the sign of Galion's father. "Go and prepare the rooms for those who return. Leave the horses to me."

------

Hooves pounded the earth, kicking up snow and mud on land not tainted by blood and ever holding its breath for their return. Ellyn posted at the gates--ornately carved things of beauty in deep dark wood--stood and cried out joyously, heralding the arrival of the Prince�of the battered remnants of their loved ones returned.

Amrun sensed her son�s spirit long before the cries of her people echoed through the corridors of the Caverns. To say that her heart was overwhelmed with joy would have been a lie, for she did not instantly rise from her chair. Alone in her room, having banished away all for a moment of peace with her torment, Amrun stared in her mirror at the shell that was her body. Even in the silver and gold work of the frame, Oropher had shown his crest, the Beech tree. Two trees that grew along the oval, their branches and roots entwining respectfully at the top and bottom. He had claimed that the gift and image were his confession and honor to their love.

�But what in all of Melkor�s hells could they mean now, Oropher,� she whispered to her reflection. Someone pounded on her door, someone not Galion, for he would have merely entered, his soft voice telling her to come, for Galion would know that she already knew of her son�s presence. Just as she had known of her husband�s death ten years before.

Standing, she walked to her balcony, that which used to be her son�s. It overlooked the courtyard. Down below the gates were wide open, and there stood, on their snorting creatures, those that were left, mostly Sindar as most of the Sylvans had remained in the forest with their tribesmen.

Her heart was instantly in her throat, and tears at her eyes even after she had thought none were left.

Less than a third returned. Less than that. The cries of joy were quickly replaced with the murmurs of lament that escalated to wails of sorrow, as mothers, father, wives and children, siblings and lovers finally confirmed what they had long felt. Amrun knew she was not the only one to feel death, the wind�s whispered message through the decade.

Just as the sorrowful spirit of her people filled her, Amrun caught a glimpse of Thranduil among them. His golden hair, like her own, flashed out among the silver and dark of the Sindar and Sylvans. A mother�s will to comfort her child, outweighed all else.

He was searching the faces in the courtyard, looking for her, Amrun saw. And she was not down there. Galion was, his arm reaching for the son of his closest friend, embracing, whispering in Thranduil�s ear. Two sets of eyes slowly rose to meet hers upon the balcony.

She disappeared in swirl of silver and blue silk, her feet flying over the stone of the Caverns till she came to the doors to the palace. They were propped open, letting in the winter wind. The courtyard was solemn despite the entirety of the population gathered there.

But she sought only her son, those blue eyes that reminded her of Oropher�s with every flash and glint of light. That golden hair that had been nothing but fuzzy tufts the day he was born.

Galion stepped aside the moment she reached them, a fluid motion and perfectly timed as she had not paused and encircled her babe with her arms, cradling him against her bosom as if she expected him to seek comfort there.

But Thranduil released only a slight breath of air against her ear and a whispered �mother.� She felt his heart beating, her own pounding in her chest. The babe towered over her, he supporting her, comforting. All the tears she held back fell down her cheeks for just this moment, when she held him in her arms, felt him alive before her.

-----

�My lord.�

�Galion, please�no formalities.� Thranduil spread his fingers over the silk-embroidered coverlet of the bed. Head bowed, he unclasped his cloak and tossed it to the floor. Loosening the ties of his tunic, Thranduil sighed and fell back. Blank eyes stared at the ceiling of the curtained-bed. The bed of his parents, where they had lain together, husband and wife. It seemed a sin to lie there now, to take it as his bed.

�Thranduil, the ceremony must be soon.�

Thranduil tightened his fingers over the coverlet.

Amrun sat in a chair by the curtains of the balcony, her eyes never leaving her son unwatched.

�Galion is correct, as much as I regret it.� Her voice was devoid of all emotion. Oropher�s armor propped against the wall beside her. She smoothed back her pale golden hair, dropped her hand to her lap, her fingers never idle, fidgeting.

Outside, Thranduil�s embrace had ended abruptly, he taking her hand gently in his and tugging her toward the horse of the Noldor. She had followed hesitantly, already knowing what he sought to show her. A white cloth, the closest thing to a shroud he could find, covered the armor lashed to his steed. As it were Oropher�s body itself, Thranduil reverently handed the sword to Amrun.

She had faltered. All the whispers of the wind, the replaying of the lullaby in her head, had not prepared her for the final admittance that he was not returning. Even the rending in her heart had been nothing to holding his sword in her hand. But the tears had not fallen. She had none left for Oropher.

�Mother, do you suggest that we do this before the mourning is ended?�

Amrun blinked, shaking herself from her thoughts.

�We have been mourning for ten years, Thranduil. We must end it with hope, and you are that hope�� Amrun stood and walked to her child. Sitting on the bed beside him, she did not touch him, did not look at him, but perused a delicately embroidered hart on the bedspread.

Thranduil touched a similar hart beside him. He dreaded sleeping here, in his home. Thus far his dreams had not existed. Nothing haunted him, but here, he feared that things would haunt him--within the safety of his home. Already images were forming in his mind.

A rush of thoughts flowed through his mind. So much would need immediate attention. Amroth had made it clear that he expect some sort of contact between their realms immediately, a contract of allegiance. Those of Imladris would need something as well, Cirdan in Mithlond. But he would let Master Elrond and the others deal with the Men. He had had enough of Men for now. Those weak beings who could not see what needed to be done and made rash decisions�like his own father�s rash decision.

Thranduil squeezed his eyes shut and bit his tongue. Such bitterness and disrespect for his dead father could not be allowed. The healing indeed needed to begin, if only for his own heart and mind.

But who would stand beside him and help him heal?

�You should find a wife soon, Thranduil. Do not do this alone��

His mother�s voice was a mere whisper, and he blinked his eyes open, looking to her in confusion. Amrun still did not look at him, and he glanced at Galion who had become quiet.

�Why? I have Galion, Lathdir and Halathir�you, my mother. What more do I need?� These were false questions, for he already had known the subject would come up. He had thought about it staring at the gates of Mordor. Elrond had spoken of a bit of grace, feminine grace that could comfort and make an ellon fall to his knees before her--which in and of itself could be dangerous.

Who would he even consider? There was only one, but to bring her here? She would not be caged by such walls long before it drove her insane.

�Son, there are things only a wife may do to keep a king from losing his mind�a comfort only a wife may bring.� Amrun met Galion�s eyes, and the ancient ellon nodded. He had considered broaching the subject himself.

Amrun turned her head to stare at her son�s profile, Oropher�s profile. The urge to kiss him as she had her husband was overwhelming. Touching his chin, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek affectionately.

�In a fortnight, I expect to be celebrating a new king, my son,� she said abruptly, and stood. Walking past Galion, she touched the silver-haired ellon�s shoulder and offered him a weak smile. Galion laid his hand over hers and squeezed it.

----

Saelbeth could not contain his curiosity. The magnificent creatures filled the section of the caverns cleaned out to cage them. Already carpenters and stonemasons had been sought to build stalls, plans drawn up by Galion himself, which reflected his memory of those in Beleriand.

Halathir held the reins of one beast, the one that had carried the messenger, a tall beast with a playful spirit. His fingers idly caressed its muzzle. It responded, nuzzling the ellon�s shoulder. With a smile, Halathir turned his head to meet the creature�s eyes, deep black, wet orbs that glistened with light from the torches along the walls.

�I remember, Halathir, when Oropher came here that summer. You all came riding horses, and then after sometime, during the merging of our peoples, the mortal creatures eventually died or were released.� Saelbeth touched the leather saddle on the newly finished half wall of the stall. The young elf moved hesitantly around the horse, somewhat afraid to touch it. What need did the forest peoples need for these creatures, unless they meant to leave this place? A horse was not discrete like the camouflaging bowers overhead. Only intruders rode such creatures, and those that meant to stay, had given them up.

Halathir nodded as he smoothed his hand over the horse�s coat.

�Thranduil is accepting those that Oropher rejected.� Saelbeth�s voice held fascination for the animal.

Halathir nodded again, remaining silent.

Lathdir leaned against the entrance to the area, listening though he did not speak. The acceptance of such a simple gift, like a horse�an entire cavalry of horses�meant so much that words would not describe.

--------

The nights were filled with laments for the fallen and the days filled with false pretensions of daily routine. Thranduil found himself tossing and turning in his father�s bed. The bed where his parents had made love, kept pillow talk as Oropher had spouted all his fears and concerns for what would happen at the gates of Mordor.

Thranduil rolled out of bed and crawled to a table near the wall. Galion was so good. A bottle of wine. The 'protectorate' of the realm uncorked the bottle of wine and drank straight from it. Slipping his tongue inside the mouth, he tasted the strong red liquid.

Dreams had started to haunt his nights, just as he had feared. Dreams where he slid through the mud, watched his father be struck down by the terrifying hoards of Sauron's dark army.

Silently, Thranduil cursed Eru. Then he crawled to the balcony and forced himself shakily to his feet, his elbows supporting himself on the rail. Looking out over the darkened forest and courtyard, he cursed Eru loudly.

All he had known was virtually destroyed. Ellyn he had been childhood friends with. Ellyn with wives, mothers, families. Ellyn barely past their majority and who had not yet made their marks in the world.

And his mother had mentioned a wife! What could he offer? Nothing. He could not be king in this state of insanity. Malterin. She was better off free and roaming the forests for eternity.

------

Lathdir heard the hoarse and drunken cry of his friend and lord. Glancing up at the over hanging balcony, he then looked back at his companions.

"The Prince." Halathir made as if to stand and go to Thranduil.

Lathdir cursed and stood before Halathir could. Saelbeth looked to them with question.

"What is it?"

"Many soldiers go through this after their first battle." Lathdir stood and took a bottle from Saelbeth. Galion's cousin watched them with curiosity. Lathdir looked down. "Thranduil had never experienced war. Most don't react until they are home again. Until they see themselves compared to those that have never killed before, did not see their comrades fall to the blade."

Saelbeth averted his eyes, stared back into the fire they had built in the courtyard. He was not like the others. He had never had a warriors heart but had opted for Galion's training.

Halathir watched as Lathdir left them. He drank and looked down at the dirt between his legs. His knees up, his arms resting on them, he stared. Oropher had taken great pains to protect his son, to preach the importance of getting away from the Noldor and everything associated with Beleriand and the Valar. Thranduil had been coddled, protected from war. A few skirmishes here and there with orcs, but that was it. Not whole armies brought down in one swift moment. Not his own father struck down before his eyes.

Halathir closed his eyes before any tears could fall. He remembered when his own innocence had been lost. He was much younger, barely his majority. Orcs had attacked his family. All save himself had been killed. He remembered the blood lust watching them murdered by the creatures. Then killing those in vengeance, then the guilt for being allowed to live when all he had loved had been killed. How long had he wandered Arda praying for death? It had not been long before Oropher had taken him into their traveling band.

Then there had been Lothlorien. The disagreement and Greenwood.

Halathir opened his eyes and tried to offer Saelbeth a smile.

----

Tears left red streaks down Thranduil's face as he sobbed. The images would not leave his mind, no matter how much he drank, no matter how much he cried. Ellon after ellon fell on the battlefield where the trees of Greenwood should have been. He was blind to all around him.

He rolled his cheek against the cool wood of the balustrade, his hand over his face as sobs wracked his body.

"My lord."

"I am no lord!" He fell from the rail back on to the floor.

Lathdir caught him beneath the arms and tried to lift him despite Thranduil's resistance.

"Let me go!" Thranduil fought him. Lathdir would not let go.

"You are drunk." Lathdir kicked away several bottles as he half dragged Thranduil toward the bed and away from the balcony.

Thranduil struggled against Lathdir, but the dark haired sylvan was not under such extreme influences and held him firm. Thranduil slugged him. Lathdir dropped him and covered his nose. Blood spurted onto their clothes.

"Sweet fucking Eru," Lathdir cursed softly. Blood dripping from his nose, Lathdir grabbed Thranduil by the collar and shoved him into the bed. The red liquid stained the front of his tunic, Thranduil's clothes. "You need sleep."

"NO!" Thranduil protested and jerked away. "My dreams are cursed." He fell to his knees, his face in his hands.

Lathdir dropped down beside Thranduil. He knew. He knew the pain and the guilt. The devastation of such war experience. His hand hovered over Thranduil's tangled golden hair.

Thranduil hit Lathdir's hand away. Bitter blue eyes looked up at Lathdir, filled with a thousand silent curses and thoughts of death.

"Why do I live?"

"Because you are meant to carry on."

Thranduil fell silent. Sprawled on the floor he stared into nothing. Absentmindedly he wiped at Lathdir's blood that had splattered his face.

"Immortality is a false pretense."

"Yes, my lord." Crouching on the floor beside his lord, Lathdir watched Thranduil, unsure of his lord's state of mind.

"We are merely long lived. Mortals have the blessing of Eru's children."

"We must take what we are given, and thank Eru for it." Lathdir had never thought those words would ever pass through his lips.

"How can an elleth love ellyn like us?"

Lathdir could not answer. Instead he looked away, fighting his own demons and losses. What comfort could he offer this young soon-to-be king? He did not know himself.

Watching Thranduil, Lathdir wiped the blood on his face with his sleeve.


	9. Part Eight

AN: As this is an unbetaed work, despite my best efforts, there are surely still errors. Do not hesitate to bring them to my attention, I will take no offense.)

------

Images of the battle swam before Thranduil's closed eyes. He rolled over onto his back, kicking away the tangle of linens at his feet, and ran his hand over his face. The flesh beneath his hand felt cold and clammy, alien to his own fingers. Thranduil pinched and pulled his numb skin trying to force feeling back into it.

Behind the locked doors of his chambers, Thranduil hid and drank himself into a drowsy stupor, which only momentarily eased his pain - long enough for him to collapse in sleep upon his bed. The darkness of dreamless sleep quickly gave way to nightmares from which he could not wake, even long after he's eyes had opened. He did not know how long he lay on his bed, watching the scenes slowly fade as the sky lightened outside the balcony, only Saelbeth or Galion's knock jarring him from his catatonic state.

Thranduil dropped his hand from his face and blinked. How long ago had the knocked occurred? Minutes, hours, days, years? The gray light of winter filtered through the curtains as sleet pounded against stone. What time of day was it? He could not tell with his mind so groggy.

Soft music filtered through the haze, dragging him to his feet. Clothes lay scattered across the floor, and stumbling around, Thranduil steadied himself against a chair as he pulled on a pair of wrinkled breeches and a musty tunic.

Thranduil peered out from behind his door. An elleth carried a basket of wrinkled linens toward the laundry rooms. He knew her, had known her since they had first come to the forest. She was a pretty elleth, gracefully adjusting the piled laundry.

He knew the routine. She would carry her load down the stairs to the laundry rooms, where they would soak in hot water infused with sweet smelling oils, probably sandalwood since he had seen her exiting Galion's room.

His tongue slid across the cracked surface of his lips, his sweaty forehead pressed against the cold stone of the wall. The back of his throat burned with bile. The elleth appeared an apparition, out of place compared to the realities swimming in his head.

Something crashed behind him. Thranduil whirled around and reached to unsheath his sword. Sweat stung his eyes and the sound of neighing horses filled his head, the clanking of metal. Soft tinkling voices mixed in, confusing him. They were out of place in battle. Blinking his eyes, he watched an elleth stoop to pick up the goblets she had dropped, another elleth sopping up the wine on the floor. Down the way were the make-shift stables. Slipping back against the wall out of view, Thranduil wiped his hand down his face as he realized he, thankfully, didn't have his sword with him.

Thranduil took a deep breath and stood, moving passed the elleth with her laundry, and made haste toward the wine cellars.

-------

Ghosts wandered the halls, and the week passed with soft murmurs. Amrun watched her son as his emotional and mental battle wounds festered, his physical ones healing quickly. She wished she did not have to pressure him or push him, that he would just heal. She wished she could have protected him from the ugliness of war. But as it was, she could not have, and with the alternative in mind, she would not have kept him from it.

Thranduil's curses of the other Elven races echoed through her mind, the elves scapegoats for his pain. If one truly looked at it with logic and reason, Amrun knew that her son would see the necessity of the death brought to them. Sauron was a terrible force, and the dark ones would have killed them all, if it had not been for the many they had lost now.

Of course, these were Amrun's thoughts when she was waking and able to control them. Her dreams were filled with terrors and would take time to lessen.

Her fears and mourning had been transferred to her son and people, her husband's spirit urging her to remain strong for the living. Every morning she awoke, sat before the gilded mirror, closed her eyes, and imagined him standing behind her, whispering sweetly in her ear his encourage means. Dry eyes opened, and she forced a smile to her lips until it felt natural. When she left her chambers, none knew of her long night of torment and weeping. And those nights were becoming shorter. It was time that Thranduil did the same.

Amrun's words did nothing for Thranduil, the words of a mother trying to help her son overcome his own fears. So she sought out Halathir.

-------

The training ring had been Oropher's idea, via Galion. It was not that Galion did not want credit, but had confided in Oropher that no matter what ideals Oropher held regarding peaceful residence in this forest, dark forces still resided in the world. Training for battle would be necessary. Oropher had agreed with Galion immediately, and the cave had been modified into an arena for practicing sword play and hand-to-hand combat on one half, and an archery range on the other.

The large room had three known entrances one from the south, one from the east, and one from the northeast. The floor of the cave had been smoothed, the stalagmites removed except for the largest pillars. Along the western wall, a wall of oak had been installed with various styles of targets painted on the wood. The eastern half of the room had several arenas carved out of the floor with a number of medium sized stalagmites left to mark off the boundaries of the rings. The floor had been covered with a mixture of semi-fine and coarse limestone sand from the removed formations that had been ground by the elves. Near the entrances stood cabinets and trunks filled with practice weapons and armor.

The enormous room stood empty except for two figures.

Halathir dusted his hands with powdered chalk and walked toward the center of the northern most ring. Shifting his feet slightly more than shoulder width apart, knees bent, he held his arms extended downward before him, his hands in fists. Another ellon stood the same in front of him. Halathir took a step back and pulled his right arm back, elbow bent, and fist cocked beside his waist. His left moved toward the center, but still straight, protecting his groin. The other ellon let out a terrifying yell, and Halathir stepped forward as if attacking his opponent with a punch directed at his face. His opponent blocked the punch, pushing Halathir's arm outward. He made a striking motion with the heel of his palm into Halathir's nose.

The defending ellon paused, his hand just millimeters from Halathir's face. He struck at Halathir's side with the heel of his foot, stopping before he touched him. Halathir stepped forward again, attacking. His opponent spun around and extended his leg, slapping away Halathir's foot with the bottom of his foot. Halathir smiled and his opponent set his foot down and grinned.

"You are coming along, Lir." Halathir sat down in the middle of the arena with his legs outstretched.

Lir returned to his original position and proceeded to go through the moves of a simulated fight, his body moving fluidly, like a cat. "And when shall Master Galion come down again? I enjoyed his lessons while you all were away." He spun and kicked, punched and blocked an imaginary foe.

"It is hard to believe that while we were away, you became an adult without us to celebrate your majority with you." Halathir watched the young ellon, dark braid whipping around with each move, black eyes focused intently. "Galion has been training you well, but then again, he was the one to teach me this style…" Halathir trailed off as Lir stopped and laid down on his back in the stand, his lithe body shiny with a thin layer of sweat.

Someone cleared their throat behind them, and Halathir jumped to his feet, Lir following suit a bit more slowly.

"My lady Amrun," both ellon bowed as Halathir greeted the queen.

"I seek your aid, Halathir. My son. As his mother, I cannot convince him of his duty, nor ease his pain. I thought perhaps…perhaps he would be here to find an outlet different from his current chosen one." Amrun looked down at her shaking hands and dropped them to her sides in closed fists.

"My lady, I am here for your whatever you need." Halathir dismissed Lir who quickly bowed again and left the arena.

Lir dusted the sand from his body and dressed, leaving the queen and Halathir to their private conversation. He bowed to Galion as the steward entered through the eastern entrance.

"The last I heard of him, he was heading down to the wine cellars, my lady. I would be delighted to seek him out for his daily…reminder." Galion appeared stoic as he addressed Amrun from behind. She turned and smiled more as he bowed to her. "You have not asked for my help, but let me take this burden from you, and perhaps we will have our king when I am through." A harsh gleam entered into Master Galion's ancient eyes, and Amrun thought she could see the flash of a cold mithril blade in them.

"O-of course, Master Galion, I had not thought to ask you for your help, thinking a mother's love would work. Or nagging as it were…oh dear," Amrun frowned and glanced up at her silent sentinel. "I have been a nag…but out of love."

"My lady," Halathir spoke carefully, "And what have Lathdir and I been but bullies, trying to knock sense into him?"

Amrun let out a laugh, gentle at first. But as the sound echoed in her ears, it filled her with warmth, a warmth she had not felt in a decade. It became louder, melting the ice around her heart. "Oh sweet Eru," she mumbled, then clearer, "we have not been ourselves, a nag, and two bullies trying to force Thranduil to listen to us, but if it had been us, we would not have listened to ourselves." She turned and placed her hand on Galion's. "Go to him, and with all your ancient wisdom, bring my son back to me whole once again."

Galion softened his gaze at her and frowned. "I will bring him to you, but whether or not he is whole, will be up to him, whether it happens in minutes or years." With a bow, he turned from her and left her to Halathir's care.

"Come my Lady, and allow me to accompany you. I have seen a few green shoots poking through the snow within the courtyard. The early crocuses I believe should be blooming soon." He stepped from the arena and pulled on his tunic. Halathir reached out for Amrun and took her elbow.

-----------

The barrel sloshed as Thranduil rolled it none too carefully down the stony bank of the stream. The flow of water magnified in sound as it echoed against the cavern walls and became a roar in his tired ears. It did not bother him, but relieved him as the noise drowned out his thoughts. Pushing the barrel into place, he collapsed and leaned against it, the wood rough and cool against his face. Turning the spout, he filled his cup and gulped down the wine, his mind growing hazier with each drink. "To the King of Eryn Galen," he mumbled.

He closed his eyes and drifted back into his nightmares. The mud, the blood, the blinding light when Gil-Galad fell. His gloved hand cradling his father's pale head as his growls and sword warned away the scavengers. The distant look in Rumil's eyes of one who'd seen his first real war and battle. The rotting stench of the dead. At least with the wine, he was not skittish, looking over his shoulder expecting an attack at any moment.

A heavy weight pushed against his back and he felt as if he were falling, deeper and deeper in his misery, and he could not fight against the sensation. The abyss was bottomless before him, and his head lead his body as he tumbled forward.

A blast of frigid water stunned him, filling his nose and lungs. Icy fingers stabbed through his brain, twisting and shredding him to a new awareness of his circumstances, and with a quick movement, he found his way to the surface of the stream, moving easily against the gently flow. Golden hair darkened by the water, he broke the surface, coughing and choking, to find himself staring into the dark turquoise eyes of Master Galion. There was no humor to be found in them. To his left, Thranduil heard another splash, and turned to see the barrel floating down the stream toward the river, bobbing like a happy and fat mortal merchant. Scowling he turned back to Galion who had stepped back and was smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of the front of his robe. Beside Galion stood Lathdir, who seemed amused at his friend's current position, but dared not to laugh.

Thranduil started to climb out but Galion merely stepped on his fingers and pushed him back in.

"ARRRGHHH," Thranduil pulled back his hand and attempted to grasp the shore with his other hand, only to feel the sole of Galion's other boot crushing them.

"Lathdir, I often find the frigid waters of a winter stream refreshing and rejuvenating to the soul. In all my years, it is one of the few things I have not become insensitive to."

Lathdir hid his smile quickly and glanced at Master Galion in understanding of the connection to Thranduil's shivering appearance.

"The sharp icy stabs of the water's temperature tends to clear the mind and forces one to practice a certain level of self control and meditation. You must completely blank your mind and focus your attention away from the cold. It takes some practice, but eventually the ability to refresh becomes second nature."

Thranduil's feet found the streambed and he stood up, his clothes clinging to his shivering body. Wet and morose, Thranduil glowered at Galion. To a mortal the water would have been deadly cold, and to an elf, bitter and biting.

"I have spoken with Lathdir and Halathir about the war, and I need not your account to understand your pain." Galion crouched back down and his expression softened. "I cannot offer you any advice for how to make it disappear, for it merely fades as time moves on. They told me of your strength on the battlefield, of how you held your head high though the Noldor and others mocked you. They told me of Amroth's jabbing and pushing, and how you gracefully handled yourself with quiet and thoughtful replies." Galion rose and moved, blocking Thranduil as the he inched toward one side or the other, seeking his escape. "They even said you smiled with Malterin after entering the wood. Yet now that you have returned to your home, you have made it into a prison. Chilling those that would follow you if you were king."

Thranduil had stopped and though he made the outward pretense of ignoring Galion's words, he listened.

Lathdir listened as well, remaining quiet as Galion's words echoed softly against the stone. If it had not been Galion, he would have shoved the elf aside and pulled his friend from the water and dried him, offered him more drink to chase away the chill.

Lips pressed in a thin bluish line, Thranduil made a move toward the bank.

"You may not leave the water till you have accepted your position. There are others in our realm who have lost as much as you, if not more, and you have to be strong for them, and give them the hope they are seeking that it was not all in vain."

Thranduil rushed Galion, almost slipping as his feet touched the stone bank. Lathdir jumped to the side as Galion stepped back calmly and blocked Thranduil's hands reaching for his collar. With swift movement, Galion pushed Thranduil's hands to the side and smashed his elbow against the prince's face. Blood oozed down from Thranduil's lips, and a deep red mark appeared across his cheek. The combined forces made him lose balance and Thranduil crashed back into the water with a splash that wetted Lathdir and Galion's boots.

"Master Galion…" Lathdir broke the silence as Thranduil righted himself once again, the bruise already beginning to purple.

Galion waved him off. "The water will soothe his wounds, both physical and emotional, if he would let it." Eyes boring into Thranduil's, he added, "If you try again, I will give you another to match that one. You seem to forget that I have many years of experience over you. Do not let these robes of a steward fool you."

Thranduil appeared the petulant child about to burst into a tantrum, his face beginning to purple with rage. He no longer shivered, his anger warming his body. He gave Lathdir a side glance, taking note that his friend had folded his arms, standing like a sentinel beside Galion as if he too would smash Thranduil to smithereens if he dared to breach the shore again.

Thranduil sucked in a deep breath through his nose, forcing himself to calm, closing his eyes and concentrating on nothing. Opening his eyes, he tried to take on an air of nonchalance despite his appearance.

"I would not have taken you for a bully, Master Galion, using such brute force against someone sitting and minding their own business."

"It is not bullying when it is apparent that you have lost your senses and are ignoring your business. It is not bullying when one is defending oneself either. Lathdir brought you clothes in anticipation of this predicament you have found yourself in. When you are willing to accept your mother's prodding and your friends' 'urgings', I will allow him to help you from the stream and offer you warmth and comfort. Your people hunger for it, your mother weeps for it, and I demand it." Behind Lathdir was a pile of clothing draped over a stalagmite, a drying cloth resting on top.

Galion admired Thranduil's stubbornness, his unbending demeanor. With experience, Galion knew that the young prince could be a great king, with ability to convince his opponents in any matter of his desires with just a few well placed words. But currently, one would have merely laughed, and perhaps in years to come, they would laugh over this situation, sitting before a warm fire, and age darkening Thranduil's eyes.

For a brief moment Galion and Thranduil's eyes met and Thranduil saw the fondness and love for him in their depths.

"But my father…" Thranduil's whisper quickly disappeared with the flow of the water. His body relaxed.

"Would be ashamed of you in this moment. He did not wish to raise a son that gave up easily to despair."

"I'm afraid….I'll make mistakes…"

"All kings do, whether they are willing to admit it or not. The great ones come through despite them. And the ones that don't, are remembered for their strength in the final moments. Kings like your father." Galion squatted before Thranduil. "He did make one fatal mistake, and he knew it in the moment when it was too late. But he did not hesitate and show his fear, and those that died beside him felt his strength. I was not there, but I knew your father. I dare you to tell me that I am wrong."

Thranduil did not back down from Galion's challenge yet did not reply. The truth cut into his heart, and he knew that Galion was right.

"Forget his death and final moments, and remember his life as your father, loving and doting. As a king, pulling together two different Elven races to create this haven. As the husband of your mother. Do not forget her losses and comfort her. Do not make her lose you as well to an even worse fate than death by the blade." Galion reached with his long slender fingers, Thranduil hesitating but a second, then placing his icy hand in Galion's. Galion wrapped his hand around Thranduil's and pulled him effortlessly on the bank. "Lathdir will stay with you and escort you to your chambers once dressed. I will alert your mother to begin her plans for your coronation. By tomorrow night you will sleep as king."

Galion was gone before Thranduil could reply, and with a stunned expression, allowed Lathdir to attend him. With careful movement, Lathdir peeled the wet clothes from his friend and soon to be King. Love for Thranduil warmed him, his loyalty steadfast. With a hot breath, he melted the ice that had formed on Thranduil's eyebrows and lashes. He twisted the wet clothes, squeezing the water from them, and laid them out on the limestone formations surrounding them.

Thranduil noticed how the stone glittered with minerals in the torchlight. His movements were dreamlike as Lathdir dressed him, the dry clothes chasing the chill away. He slid his arms into the sleeve of his tunic, and glanced down, taking note of the silver and gold embroidery of his father's emblem shining out from a deep green, delicate leaves on vines curling about him. Already his hair was beginning to dry, and the soft ends curled slightly.

Lathdir stood back, and taking in the full picture of Thranduil, dressed as a king but with the expression of a scared boy. He started to kneel, "I offer my…" Thranduil cut him off.

"Wait, not yet, Lathdir. Galion apparently anticipated my acceptance, the wily and wise ellon he is." Thranduil almost smiled and shook his head. "I can still feel all the pain and I am afraid. Your profession of loyalty and allegiance can wait till the coronation. Just offer your support to me now as a friend." Thranduil clasped Lathdir by the forearm. "Please?"

"My friendship to you will always come first, Thranduil." With a grin, Lathdir stood back gestured toward the door in invitation.

---------

Down the halls and to the south, beyond the Great Hall, the head seamstress of the caverns, Mistress Aida, found herself busy making modifications to many a tunic and gown for the coronation. She was a bit stunned by the fact considering that Oropher's coronation had not been such a formal affair. Half naked Sylvan's had attended and modestly attired Sindar. But even she could not deny the difference that Thranduil's meant. Galion had already alerted all those who served in the caverns that their world would change, that they were to expect visitors from other realms during the new year budding before them. Imladris and Lorien were just two of the realms mentioned in the rumors.

Aida delegated many responsibilities to her apprentices, and still she felt overwhelmed by the sudden amount of work pressing at her door. The ellon before her was not helping in easing her apprehension.

Halathir blushed deeply as the maidens fussed about him, measuring and taking notes, prodding at him with her pins. He'd chosen a dark blue silk tunic for his costume, making his light green eyes brighter and his pale yellow hair lighter.

"We only have a few hours, Halathir, stand still and stop behaving like a child." Aida sighed and deliberately poked him with a pin. "It will be crooked."

"Aida, how would you like if I poked you with my sword and told you to stand still while others stood around and found amusement at your situation." Halathir bit his lip and winced as he felt another deliberate stab to his side. Glaring he looked down at the elleth kneeling on the floor beside him, her dark hair pulled back in tight bun at her nape. He followed the line down her spine and shifted uncomfortably.

"Damnit you terrible elleth!" Halathir jerked away as she poked him again. He stepped down from the pedestal and walked to the mirror. "It's fine the way it is, and I will have no more of your tortures."

Giggles erupted from the other seamstresses, a hearty laugh from Lathdir who stood across from him, an elleth stitching and pinning a seam along his sleeve. His raven hair framed his handsome face, offsetting the crimson of his tunic perfectly. The elleth aiding him flirted shamelessly.

Aida folded her arms across her breasts and scolded Halathir. "You are behaving worse than a spoilt child. The seam will not stay in this manner, and I have just a few more stitches to secure it. Get back in your place or I will have you tied down so I may finish my work." She challenged his reflection.

"My dear lady," Lathdir chuckled, "Do not encourage him with such words, you may make him behave worse to prove your threat true." Halathir turned red and stomped back to the pedestal.

"Close your mouth, Lathdir, before I close it for you." Legs spread in a firm stance and arms crossed, Halathir stood as though about to face a raging hoard, tense and prepared for battle.

Lathdir refrained from laughing, but wiggled his eyebrows at the flirtatious maiden

Aida rolled her eyes and muttered something about warriors and ellyn, continuing her stitching with gentle hands.

-------

Beyond the edge of the balcony the dimming light of day quickly vanished, though the clouds remained to block the moon's comforting glow, the sleet never ceasing. Inside the room, Galion lifted the top of a delicately blown glass swan and lit the wick of the lamp. The warm scent of lavender wafted through the room, stirred by the breeze coming in through the balcony.

Thranduil watched the steward's movements, soft and gentle, quite different from the force he'd used just the day before, but no less deliberate and controlled. He pressed his fingers to the bruise on his left cheek and puffy lower lip. It wasn't too bad, and had already begun to fade, mostly due to the frigid waters of the stream and Lathdir's attentions once Thranduil had returned to his chambers. The marks would be gone by morning at the latest. A tremor surged through his hand and he dropped it to his lap.

"Galion, I am nervous, a shaking mess of nerves. What am I to say to them? What do I say to bring about hope and loyalty?" Thranduil stared at the stranger in the mirror, dressed in a blue silk dressing gown, sash untied and front open, and matching sleep pants. A box lay open on the table before him, the crown shining up at him, mocking his nervousness. Reaching for it, he lifted the crown as if it were some mysterious object for which he must use caution. The metal was cool against his fingertips, hard and unfeeling. Contemplating the fine craftsmanship as he traced the veins of leaf and curve of each vine, he turned it in his hands and then raised to his head. The leaves had barely touched his hair when he tossed it back at the box

"How did Elu Thingol manage?" Thranduil turned from his image and faced Galion who'd remained silent, shaking out Thranduil's clothing for after the ceremony. "And he king of a greater realm than this?"

Galion laid the tunic and breeches out on the bed, running his palms over the wrinkles. "Do not compare yourself to him, or any other. They are not here, they are not now." He moved to Thranduil and gestured for him to face the mirror. Galion combed his fingers through Thranduil's warrior braids and pulled back the silken strands into an intricate design reserved for royalty. "Thingol's people are not yours, and his worries are not yours." Galion picked up the box and closed the lid over the crown, tucking it beneath his arm. "Only think about tomorrow and the security and solidity our people will feel as you bring the realm back together. Everything else can wait till after that." Kissing Thranduil's cheek in a fond gesture rarely seen from Galion, he quickly stepped back and bowed. "Sleep tonight, sire."

Thranduil inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly through his mouth, eyes closed as he imagined his doubts flowing out of him with that breath. When he opened his eyes, Galion was gone. He stood and picked up the clothing Galion had laid out and draped them over the back of his chair. Changing his mind, he held the tunic up in front of him. It had been his father's and Aida had modified it to fit Thranduil's more slender form. The face looking at him startled Thranduil. Except for the slight difference in built, it could have been Oropher standing there. He picked up the crown and place it on top of his head and focused more intently on the figure staring back at him. A king stood within the golden frame, and Thranduil watched as the ghostly figure of a female moved beside him. Before him, their appearances and the scenery behind them changed, as if time were affecting the two. Thranduil blinked and he stood alone, holding a tunic up against his body as if he were trying to see how it would look on him, the crown slightly off centered on his head.

-------

The forest river rushed beneath the bridge, but Thranduil barely heard it as he concentrated on his mother's eyes and mouth. If there was wind, he could not feel it, and if there was light, he did not see it.

Thranduil strained to hear Amrun's words. His heart beat thrummed in his head drowning all else out. Her lips formed the words silently, _with the Grace of the Valar_, _crown you king of Eryn Galen._ His hair depressed as she laid the crown atop his head. Her blue eyes sparkled wetly, and he knew she was holding back tears. Her control gave him strength as he stepped forward. To his left the courtyard was filled with Sindar, and to his right, the Sylvans stood or watched from the trees.

It was done. None came forward to denounce him, or to say they rejected him as king. Of course, Thranduil swallowed, time would tell. He'd merely proven himself on the battlefield as a leader in war. Now that times of peace were at hand and the future uncertain, he would be tested in different ways. The thought terrified him. A cold sweat dripped down the side of his face despite the ongoing sleet. The scent of the battlefield, and the sounds of war still plagued him, but grew faint as Galion's words from the stream returned to him.

Thranduil cleared his mind and smiled boldly at those around him.


End file.
